Present Over Perfect

slightly unnerving amount of time. It’s winter, and I find
myself utterly not interested in finishing. I’m reading
voraciously, making tacos and curries, folding laundry,
taking walks. I’m going to bed early with thick novels,
watching old movies with the boys, setting the table for
cozy meals with friends, making menus filled with winter
flavors: steak, potatoes, rosemary, garlic, red wine.
The stack of pages sits on my dresser, red pen resting on
top. The documents on my computer go untouched for days
on end. Frankly, this isn’t like me. I am a procrastinator, and
(like most writers, I think) I write in fits and starts. But
there’s a new thing happening in me right now—a
detachment, almost.
Writing has always been a struggle for me—I love it; I
avoid it; I fear I’ll never make my deadline. Most writers I
know are a touch neurotic about it. I always have been. And
writing has been so deeply tied to my identity—so many of
my friends are writers and English majors, bookworms,
word nerds. This is what we do. The craft, the smell of old
books, and on and on.
A few nights ago, a friend joined us for dinner and his
daughter came, too—a senior English major, working on a
thesis about Flannery O’Connor. Oh, I loved talking with
her about narrative and theme. I wrote my senior thesis on
Edith Wharton and Henry James, and when you ask for a
book recommendation from me, hold on: I’m going to give
you at least a dozen, or fifty.
My love affair with books endures, or, if anything, is